


Reality and Stars

by C_l_o_v_e



Series: Sing me a Lullaby, Sing me to Sleep [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Betrayal, Found Family, Insanity, Murder, No respawns, Paranoia, Pogtopia, Revolution, Villain Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Wilbur Soot, continuation of nightmares and daydreams but tubbo's alive for plot, l'manburg, lost family, manburg, sleepy bois inc - Freeform, wilbur is just not doing good :(
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C_l_o_v_e/pseuds/C_l_o_v_e
Summary: Sometimes, the daydreams are worse than the nightmares. And sometimes, reality is the worst of them all.(Sequel to Nightmares and Daydreams)
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Series: Sing me a Lullaby, Sing me to Sleep [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021345
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	Reality and Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EvenMadderHatter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvenMadderHatter/gifts).



_From the beginning, Wilbur had fought for his country. He had built something from nothing, started a revolutionary war for it, and almost died for it more times than he could count. He had fought for his land and he had fought to protect his family (he had fought for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like to live without war). But one way or another, it would all end today. The final battle, the grand finale, and the last note of his (unfinished) symphony. One way or another, he would finally stop fighting._

The battle is as successful as he could ever hope for it to be. His forces greatly outnumber Schlatt’s, and Techno’s arsenal arms his men to the teeth. The heat of the fight keeps him alive for just a bit longer, brings a little warmth back into his skin (the ache of cold has been with him for so long now, he doesn’t know where the chill stops and where the president begins). His army fights bravely, and for a second, he remembers what it was like to start L’manburg again. To fight for a noble cause and a home where he could protect those causes. 

Then at some point, Wilbur realizes that no matter what happens, Pogtopia will not lose. At some point, Wilbur realizes that he is not the underdog in this fight. At some point, Wilbur realizes that L’manburg would be back. (At some point, Wilbur realizes that _his_ L’manburg is not coming back). 

Dream publicly announces his surrender in front of his forces. Schlatt dies of a heart attack in a cramped, broken (familiar?) caravan. They re-establish him as president. Tommy’s speech on the podium celebrates their cause, their victory. Wilbur can tell that he genuinely believes that the story is over and the heroes have won (but they’re not the heroes, are they? The story just isn’t finished yet). 

He breaks away from the crowd near the end of Tubbo’s speech. He doesn’t bother hearing the rest of Tubbo’s plan for L’manburg, he doesn’t want to hear the repairs and healing that the land must undergo (because the time for injury has not ended yet and we cannot begin to heal until we have finished hurting). Tommy is wrong. 

He shoves the stones away from the side of a certain hill and makes his long trek down the familiar carpeted hallway. A small stone room opens up and his eyes glance over the carvings on the wall. He sighs and runs his bloodied hands against the rough carvings of the walls. The marks help him remember. Without them and his journals, he would’ve forgotten what it felt like to be president (to be loved, to be happy, to have a family). He stops dragging his hand against the wall and forces himself to stop in front of the button. 

For a long time, he doesn’t do anything. Wasn’t it only a few weeks ago where he was in a very familiar situation and He (first) appeared? 

Wilbur leans his head against the wall and takes a deep breath, murmuring to himself. “There was a special place. There really was, at one point in time.” 

(Wilbur still doesn’t know if he’s reminiscing or he’s trying to convince himself of something).

His fingers brush over the oak button and he lets them linger there for a second before he pulls away. “But even with Tubbo in charge, could it ever exist again? The thing that I built this nation for doesn’t exist anymore. It’s over.”

Wilbur’s hand is halfway to the button when he feels him enter. A suffocating (warm, loving) presence fills the room (how many times has he been here before?). 

“What are you doing?”

Wilbur gives a sad smile and doesn’t turn around, hand hovering in mid-air (does he even need to anymore? “Phil?”

“What are you doing.”

Wilbur gives a half-hearted chuckle, “I wasn’t doing anything. We just made Tubbo president and we won. We won the war. Schlatt’s gone now.”

Philza doesn’t say anything for a while. Wilbur’s not surprised, (visit number five went similarly) Phil’s always been quiet whenever he got into trouble. 

“Have, have you heard the song on the walls before?” He shakes his head, chuckling at his own foolishness. “What am I saying? Of course you have. You were there when I carved these words in stone.”

He hears Phil step closer and Wilbur shuts his eyes, hoping that this final decision will ease his suffering and his mind will take pity on him (it doesn’t. It never will). 

He sighs and lowers his hand, letting it hang by his side. “There was a special place Phil. But it’s not there anymore.”

Philza takes another small step forward and puts a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder. “It is there. You just won it back Wil.”

Wilbur snarls and throws the hand off of him, forcing Philza to retreat (it’s the same damn action that sets him off every time, the same temptation of warmth that he’ll never get again). He paces around the room, hands tearing at his brown curls. Philza watches in concern as he sees his own son deteriorate in front of him (Wilbur ignores him. It’s not like anything he hasn’t seen before). 

“Phil I’m always so close to pressing this button! I have been here seven or eight times. Seven or eight times I have been here and every time, every time I come back, you’re always here!” Wilbur finally stops by the button again and slams his hand against the stone wall (his knees don’t buckle this time). “I have been here so many times and every time I come back the daydreams become so much worse. Let me finish this. Let me finish my story. Get out of my head!”

Philza slowly approaches Wilbur, wings open, and ready to comfort him. “Wil, think about what you’re doing. Are you just gonna blow it all up? Is that what ending your story means to you?”

“I-I do. I think I-” 

Phil dares to step closer once again. “You fought so hard to get this land back. It would be such a shame to just blow it up now.”

Wilbur tugs his coat and pulls it around him a bit tighter. This daydream is different, this Phil acts differently (this Phil doesn’t immediately fill him with warmth). “I don’t even know if it works anymore. I don’t even know if the button still works anymore, Phil. I could press it and nothing might happen.” 

Wilbur grins and turns to face his father, frozen in place. “I could press it,” he hums, one hand already reaching towards the finale. “I could press it and nothing might happen.”

Philza’s eyes widen and in one sudden motion, he strides forward and grabs Wilbur’s arm, forcing him to look him in the eye. “Do you really want to take that risk? There is a lot of TNT potentially connected to that button.”

“Phil. Phil, there was a saying. A saying by a traitor, once a part of L’manburg. He had a saying, Phil.” Wilbur yanks his wrist free from Philza’s grasp and gives a manic smile. “It was never meant to be.”

He slams his hand down on the button and the hiss that responds chases away the biting frost in his bones, if only for a second. The resounding explosion throws him back against the wall, overwhelming his senses. He can taste blood in his mouth and feel the burns along his skin but none of that matters, not when Chekhov's Gun has finally been fired. 

The rubble that surrounds them makes it difficult to see, to breathe. Wilbur can feel the dust settle in his lungs and dry his throat but he doesn’t care. He steps forward, eyes widening at the sight of the havoc he’s caused. The lakes that once provided the land with life are overflowing into the craters below. The air is thick with smoke and the only glimpses of light he can see are the fires quickly spreading around the remaining land. A few stray figures hurry to the sides, wounded and limping away from the bomb site. People carry the injured and people carry the dead.

“My L’manburg Phil. My unfinished symphony,” he crows, voice mangled enough for him to taste blood when he screams. “Forever unfinished!” He turns back around, facing his father and gesturing to the rubble among them. “If I can’t have this, no one can!” 

Philza’s lies in the corner of what remains of the final control room, holding his left arm that’s bleeding and broken. He groans in pain and slowly gets up, using the wall as support. He still needs to find his son, he can still _save_ his son. “Wilbur stop. Please, Wilbur, stop.” 

Wilbur’s dark eyes track the dripping red and sees the pain in his father’s eyes. “You’re real,” he whispers, stepping towards the vulnerable winged man, hand on the hilt of his sword. “You’re _real_.” 

Philza watches as his son goes insane for the last time. He watches as his son laughs until he’s clutching his heart, tears in his bloodshot eyes. There’s a clang as a sword is thrown on the floor, a sound louder than all the screams outside.

“Kill me. Kill me now Phil. Stab me in the chest, strike me down.” 

Philza looks over his son, clothes stained with dust and blood. 

“Don’t you see! They all want you to,” Wilbur gestures to the window outside that he’s made. He gestures to a crowd that has ceased fighting, if only for a while, to watch his final moments (after all, any good villain deserves a crowd at his death). Wilbur’s smile starts to crack and tears start to streak down his cheeks. “Kill me, Phil. Do it now. Kill me.”

With a shaking hand, Philza picks up the weapon with his good arm and stares at it. It’s a fine blade, sharpened and already stained with the blood of former enemies on the battlefield. His grip tightens on the handle and he almost throws it outside (almost. Why ~~doesn’t~~ didn’t he?). “No.”

“Kill me! Look how much work went into this. I know you couldn’t possibly be proud of me anymore. Impale me, do whatever it takes-”

“You’re my son! Whatever you do,” Philza’s voice breaks, and his wings droop. “Whatever you do, you’re still my son.”

“Dad. Please.” Wilbur wraps his arms around his father, holding him one last time. “Kill me. You need to finish the story. You need to be the hero.” 

Philza lets out a broken cry as he gently pries Wilbur’s arms away from his shoulders. The weight of a sword has never been unfamiliar to him. He taught himself how to fight so he could protect his children ( _he doesn’t know how to protect them from themselves_ ). 

Yet, as he lifts his arm to strike, his hand shakes so much that he almost drops the blade twice. The sword in his hand feels like it’s made out of lead (if this is heavy, how heavy will the weight of his sins be?). He swings once, with his eyes closed, and slashes Wilbur across the chest. It’s not deep enough. He missed. His son will die in pain because he was too much of a coward to look him in the eyes as he killed him. 

Wilbur gasps, hand instinctively flying to bloody chest. “No. Not like that. You promised me,” he rasps, “you promised.” 

_A younger Wilbur flees from his room, tears in his eyes. His brothers are all still snoring away in the darkness, ignorant of the torment that echoes in his mind. Wilbur sniffles, and hugs himself, pulling the mustard sweater around him a bit tighter. It is winter now, and the weather has cooled, leaving a chilling cold that echoes in his bones as he creeps away into the hallways. The wooden cottage is cloaked in darkness for the most part, with only the moonlight to guide Wilbur to the study. The glow of light from underneath the door fills Wilbur with relief, and he stumbles into the room, sobs barely restrained. The sudden burst of an entrance causes Philza to sit up from his slouched position over the dark oak desk. Phil’s ready to scold Wilbur for being up so late when he notices the state that his son is in and immediately pushes away from the table._

_“Wil! Are you okay? What’s wrong?”_

_Wilbur’s dam finally breaks, and tears flow freely now. He blubbers out an incoherent response, voice shaky from crying._

_Philza kneels down on the oak floor and gently wipes away the tears that obscure Wilbur’s vision. “Take a deep breath, son. You’ll feel better, and then you can tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it, yeah?”_

_Wilbur throws himself into Philza’s shoulder, holding onto him as if he was the only lifeline in the world. It takes him a few shaky breaths before the uncontrollable gasps stop and he’s able to mutter something. “I-I had a nightmare, a really scary dream. I was outside in the forests in the dark, and I was really alone and I got really scared, and I was really cold and-”_

_Wilbur cuts himself off, burying his face into his coat, “you weren’t there. I couldn’t find you.”_

_Wilbur lets out another cry and tears streak down his cheeks again. Philza hugs his son, giving him a moment to weep just a little longer. His hand gently rubs Wilbur’s back, and eventually, the sobs quiet down._

_“You had a nightmare? I’m so sorry, Wil, that sounds really scary.”_

_Philza stands up, cradling Wilbur, and holds him close to his own heart, soft wings enveloping Wilbur and sheltering him from a crueler world. “Don’t you worry, Wil, I’ll protect you. As long as I’m alive, I’ll never let you go.”_

_“Promise?”_

_“Promise.”_

Philza dries his eyes and steps forward. He forces his hand to steady and doesn’t blink as he shoves the blade through Wilbur’s chest, impaling him. Philza holds Wilbur as he coughs and wheezes. He holds him until Wilbur’s knees start to buckle and Philza slowly lowers Wilbur to the ground. 

“Are you warm again, son?”

Wilbur dies in his father's arms with a smile on his face and tears in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> So i told myself that I wouldn't start another story while i was writing paradox but the finale happened and i couldn't process it so-  
> Sequel time! I've decided that Wilbur's arc doesn't end with Nightmares and Daydreams and there's so much more stuff that I could write for him, so expect some more works in this series :D  
> Also I have a tumblr now! It'll mostly be used for scheduling updates and I'll continue to post writing here on ao3 but you guys can ask me questions and send requests as well!  
> https://ask-clove.tumblr.com/  
> As always, thank you all so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it (I know i enjoyed writing it hehe). Thanks to my beta-readers for fixing my 3 am grammar.  
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated and fuel my motivation to write!


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